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The moment Sanghyeon saw Chuei Liyu, he knew his life would never be the same.
It was the first day of Boys II Planet filming, and the evaluation hall was packed with nervous trainees. Most were sitting cross-legged on the glossy floor, eyes glued to the stage as each contestant stepped forward for their initial performance. The air was thick with tension and quiet murmurs, but for Sanghyeon, it was all just background noise. He had been mentally rehearsing his own lines, trying to keep his anxiety in check.
Then Liyu walked in.
It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t storm in with flashy clothes or overpowering charisma. In fact, it was the complete opposite. He stepped lightly, like he didn’t want to disturb anyone. He’s wearing a black hoodie over a light blue shirt and a neat little tie tucked underneath, looking like he had stumbled straight out of a teen romance web drama and onto the Boys II Planet stage. His hair was soft, falling over his eyes just slightly. His voice, shy but stable, introduced himself in perfect Korean, a little accent peeking through. And then he smiled. Not the flashy, confident kind of smile Sanghyeon had seen plastered on a hundred idol trainees before but a sweet, careful one. The type of smile someone gave when they were being genuinely kind. His hands were clasped together nervously in front of him. He bowed to the mentors, then to the trainees.
And then he smiled.
Sanghyeon forgot how to breathe.
That smile—gentle, shy, heart-melting—felt like a sunbeam cutting through a cloudy day. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t practiced. It was real. Pure. The kind of smile that made you believe in fairytales.
The performance started. Something light and bouncy. Liyu danced with small, graceful steps, his movements clean but never aggressive. There was an adorable precision to everything he did, like he was made of glass and politeness. He wasn’t trying to outshine anyone. He just… existed beautifully.
And that’s what ruined Sanghyeon.
He leaned toward the trainee next to him, voice barely above a whisper.
“Who is that?”
“Chuei Liyu,” the other trainee replied. “He’s from Fnc Entertainment.”
Sanghyeon repeated the name silently to himself, like a prayer.
From that moment on, Liyu wasn’t just another trainee.
He was the trainee.
And Sanghyeon? He was hopeless.
—
It started innocently.
Sanghyeon would sneak glances across practice rooms. At first, it was curiosity. Admiration. But soon, it became obsession. He noticed everything, how Liyu always bowed when entering or leaving a room, how he nodded earnestly when receiving feedback, how he covered his mouth when he laughed, like he was shy about the sound of it.
It was unbearable.
Every little thing Liyu did made Sanghyeon want to scream into his hands. The way he tucked his hair behind his ear. The way he tied his shoelaces so neatly. The way he apologized when someone bumped into him, even if it wasn’t his fault.
“He’s too cute,” Sanghyeon mumbled one evening, sprawled across the dorm bed.
Leo didn’t even look up from his phone. “You said that yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.”
“I’m serious,” Sanghyeon groaned, pressing a pillow over his face. “He’s not even real. He’s like… a Studio Ghibli character. Like, if clouds had a human form. Or if kindness was a person.”
Leo raised an eyebrow. “You need help.”
“I need him to stop being so perfect.”
And yet, every time Liyu entered the same room, Sanghyeon would avoid eye contact like his life depended on it. If Liyu passed by in the hallway, Sanghyeon would instantly turn the other way. If Liyu so much as glanced in his direction during breaks, Sanghyeon would duck behind someone else.
Not because he didn’t want to talk to him. But because he did. So badly, it made his chest ache.
Liyu was an angel, and Sanghyeon was just a 17 year-old trainee with shaky vocals and too many emotions.
It was better this way. Safer.
Until it wasn’t.
—
It happened after a long night of practice.
The mission stages were approaching, and Sanghyeon’s group had booked an extra hour in the studio to refine their choreography. It was late, well past midnight when the others packed up and left, but Sanghyeon lingered. He wasn’t happy with his footwork. Something still felt off.
He stayed back alone, music playing softly from the speaker. His reflection in the mirror looked tired. Sweat clung to his shirt. His knees ached. But he didn’t stop.
That’s when the door opened.
He turned instinctively and nearly dropped his water bottle.
Liyu stood in the doorway.
Loose black hoodie. Gray sweatpants. Damp hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck.
Sanghyeon’s heart stopped.
“Oh,” Liyu said softly. “I didn’t know anyone was still here.”
His voice was even gentler in the quiet. Barely above a whisper. He stepped inside, hesitating for a moment.
Sanghyeon wanted to evaporate.
Liyu bowed politely. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No! You—You’re not—It’s okay,” Sanghyeon stammered, panicking. His mouth had suddenly forgotten how to form sentences. “You’re fine. I mean. You can be here. It’s… not my room or anything.”
Liyu smiled. “I was just looking for my phone charger. I think I left it earlier.”
“Oh,” Sanghyeon managed, standing stiffly. “I—I didn’t see anything. But maybe—uh—check the corner?”
Liyu nodded, walked past him, and crouched by the wall.
Sanghyeon stood frozen, staring at the floor, unsure if he should breathe or hold it.
Then Liyu’s voice came again.
“Do you always stay this late to practice?”
Sanghyeon blinked. “Sometimes. Only when… I’m bad.”
“You’re not bad,” Liyu said instantly. “I’ve seen you perform. You’re strong.”
Sanghyeon blinked harder. Had he heard that right?
“You… you’ve watched me?”
Liyu stood, holding his charger in one hand. “Mm. You’re expressive. You have a lot of energy.”
The words echoed in his head.
You’re expressive. You have a lot of energy.
Compliments. From Liyu. Liyu.
Sanghyeon could feel the color rising to his face.
“Thank you,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “You’re… um. You’re incredible.”
Liyu looked surprised, then dropped his gaze shyly. “Not really.”
“No, seriously. You’re always so clean when you dance. And polite. And sweet. And—” He cut himself off before he could list all fifty reasons he lay awake at night thinking about Liyu’s existence.
There was a small silence. Comfortable. Slightly warm.
Then Liyu smiled again. “I thought you were avoiding me.”
Sanghyeon froze.
“What?” he whispered, horrified.
Liyu tilted his head. “You never look at me.”
“I—It’s not that—I wasn’t—” Sanghyeon stumbled over his words, hands flailing slightly. “I wasn’t avoiding you. I was just… admiring you from afar while having a breakdown in my heart every time you breathed.”
Liyu blinked. Then laughed.
A soft, delicate laugh that made Sanghyeon’s stomach twist with butterflies.
“You’re funny,” Liyu said, cheeks pink.
“I’m dying,” Sanghyeon muttered.
Liyu stepped closer, just enough for Sanghyeon to smell his shampoo, something floral and soft.
“Then maybe next time,” Liyu said quietly, “you can say hi instead of running away?”
Sanghyeon looked up. Their eyes met, really me, for the first time.
And just like that, his soul left his body.
He nodded slowly, heart pounding in his throat. “Okay.”
Liyu smiled again, more gently this time. “Goodnight, Sanghyeon-ah.”
“G-Goodnight…”
He watched Liyu leave, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Then he collapsed on the floor, clutching his chest like he’d just survived a natural disaster.
Leo would never let him live this down.
But none of it mattered.
Because Chuei Liyu had talked to him.
Smiled at him.
And Sanghyeon let himself believe that maybe angels could smile back.